The sun had completely set, yet Yan Kesh did not move.
He sat cross-legged before the black stone, his brows deeply furrowed as he tried to unravel the crude riddle carved upon its surface.
[The Law of Initial Balance]
"Create a deficit, and the world will fill it."
The sentence was simple.
Its execution was torture.
For the past two hours, Yan Kesh had attempted to activate the technique using his old cultivation methods. He visualized "empty space" within his body, hoping that natural energy would flow in to fill the void.
The result was nothing.
Every time he attempted rhythmic breathing, his lungs only burned from the dry, tainted air of the barren land. There was no warmth, no sensation of power. The black stone before him remained utterly still, as if mocking his futile efforts.
"Old methods focus on accumulation," Yan Kesh muttered hoarsely, staring at his own palms.
"Ordinary cultivators store water inside a vessel. But my vessel is broken. If I pour water in, it only spills onto the ground."
He looked back at the inscription on the stone.
Create a deficit.
In the world of merchants, a deficit meant loss.
Shortage.
A hole in the ledger.
"If I want the world to give me something…" Yan Kesh fell silent. His eyes narrowed as a horrifying realization crept into his mind.
"…then I must give something first. I must create a 'loss' within myself so that the world is forced to balance it."
This was not about absorbing energy.
This was about extorting the universe by harming oneself.
Yan Kesh picked up a jagged shard of stone from the ground. Its edge was sharp enough to slice flesh.
He did not hesitate.
Hesitation only prolonged the transaction.
Sret.
He slashed the stone across his left arm. This was no shallow cut—his skin split open, exposing raw red flesh beneath. Fresh blood dripped down, falling onto the dry gray soil.
Pain flared instantly.
His nerves screamed, sending warning signals to his brain.
Yet instead of grimacing or binding the wound, Yan Kesh closed his eyes. He focused all of his consciousness on the pain. He did not reject it. He accepted it as currency.
I've paid with flesh and blood. Now—where is my merchandise?
He directed his intent not inward, but toward a small pebble in front of him, no larger than his thumb.
He imagined the pain in his arm as a burden being transferred.
A deficit here… a surplus there.
Silence.
One second. Two.
Suddenly, the air around the pebble trembled—not from wind, but from distortion.
Crack.
The pebble did not levitate.
It fractured—then crumbled into fine dust, as if struck by an invisible hammer weighing hundreds of catties.
Yan Kesh's breath caught. He opened his eyes, staring at the stone dust with constricted pupils.
No Qi had left his body.
He had not used a shred of internal energy.
What had occurred was an exchange.
The damage to his arm had been "paid" by the world in the form of damage inflicted upon the target.
"Conservation…" Yan Kesh whispered. A twisted smile carved itself onto his pale face.
"I didn't strike that stone. I merely transferred the concept of destruction from my arm to the stone."
Blood continued to drip from his wound. His face grew paler from blood loss, yet his eyes shone with a controlled madness.
This was not magic.
This was accounting.
He tried again. This time, he wanted to shift the position of the stone dust.
To obtain "movement," he would have to pay with "stamina."
Yan Kesh held his breath until his lungs felt ready to burst—creating an oxygen deficit.
Payment.
The dust slid ten centimeters to the right, as if pushed by a nonexistent wind.
At the same time, Yan Kesh gasped violently, his chest aching as though he had just sprinted uphill for an hour without rest.
His body went limp. He collapsed backward, his back hitting the cold ground. Above him, the sky was pitch-black, devoid of stars.
He stared at his bleeding arm and his constricted chest.
This technique was insane.
To destroy an enemy, he had to destroy himself first.
To move something, he had to drain his own stamina to the critical point.
There was no free energy from the heavens.
No assistance from gods.
"Fair," Yan Kesh said to the emptiness of the night. His voice was weak, yet filled with satisfaction.
"The cultivators out there borrow the heavens' power and act arrogantly as if it belongs to them. But this… this is my power. Fully paid for with my own blood."
He tore the edge of his robe and roughly wrapped the wound on his arm. The pain still throbbed, but it no longer frightened him.
It was his savings balance.
That night, in the heart of the deadly forbidden forest, a discarded former disciple fell asleep with a faint smile—embracing pain as his only honest ally.
He was not strong yet.
He was still extremely fragile.
But he had found a way to bargain for the price of his life in the face of death.
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